DN - Expectations
by A.Vehuel.A
Summary: He was so tired. Could he do it?


_**Author's Note:**_

Just a little thing that came out while I was doing a project.

Let me know what you think!

He was so tired.

He was struggling to keep up with his mind, thoughts and figurative cogs always turning around, running running running, without meeting an end, or a firm point where he could stop and rest a bit.

Of course there wasn't an end. Knowledge is limitless.

And the expectations were killing him.

He swore he could feel his brain's muscles spasm and throbb for overuse.

Expectations were everywhere. At school, at home, inside his mind.

They coordinated his life, from his way of thinking to the way he dressed.

He had to be costantly alert, in order not to fall into the typical mindset of a megalomaniac person.

He had limits, he wasn't God. He couldn't be self-righteous, he was able to make mistakes.

He was _human_.

It was hard though.

He could feel his sanity slipping like waterdrops through a drilled floor, and the expectations taking over his real self.

He had to repeat himself that he was his own person, that he had an opinion and a personality.

An emotional side.

He had almost forgotten the last time someone had hugged him.

The last time someone had praised him in a genuine way, without speculative thoughts.

The last time someone had seen _him_ and not his accomplishments.

He wanted to cry.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to shut down his mind and trust someone.

Of course he couldn't-

He was Light Yagami, after all.

He had an image to maintain.

* * *

Going back home was always a trauma.

In the sidewalk, he always had to take a deep breath and plaster a pleasant and placid expression on his face, while inside he tried to calm his racing heart and block the cold seeping in his veins.

That day smiling felt harder than ever. He had received the results of his admittance exam at the To-Ho University, and the perfect score screamed in his memory like a rabid dog. The paper sheet felt scorching in his pocket.

He didn't want to go through that door.

His lips tried to form a smile. He knew perfectly what everyone would see.

The perfect example of the poster boy, a smartly dressed young adult, with a happy smile and lively eyes.

Fools.

He didn't know how they could miss the pained grimace and dead eyes he saw every time he looked in the mirror.

* * *

The glint in his mother's eyes made his stomach clench. He still smiled at her while she jumped around, holding his paper sheet and making plans.

Of course his opinion wasn't considered. He wasn't supposed to have one. He was the will of his parents personified, supposed to think like them, to behave like them, to follow in his father's footsteps and become a police officer, in order to have a respectable and steady income and marry a proper young woman.

And begin the circle anew.

His mother didn't even say a word to him. She chattered to her friends in the phone, praising herself over and over for making such a prodigy.

Did she love him?

Light scoffed internally, a cold hole where his heart used to be.

Being hopeful didn't work, but he couldn't stop that part of him, the soft side, from crying in his mind.

He wanted a hug.

He wanted someone to take that heavy burden of expectations off his back and take care of him.

He went up to his room, not bothering to eat dinner, and cried himself to sleep.

* * *

The clock's arms had barely signed two a.m. when he slipped out of the window, carefully using the water pipe running up the wall as a ladder.

He landed without a sound and walked away silently, his black hoodie and soft trousers making him blend in the darkness.

He walked, and walked, and walked.

At three a.m. he was under a bridge, his shoes crunching old trash in particles and trying to sidestep things he tried not to think about.

There was a circle of cold grass illuminated by a lantern hanging down the wall. He sat down there, crosslegged, fingering his hoodie's sleeves.

He felt numb.

He thought he would be scared, or doubtful, or regretful, in a moment like this.

But now, all he could feel was… nothing.

He pulled up the fabric, baring his wrists and forearms. The bronze skin gleamed in the light, and he stared at it.

Could he do it?

Of course he could. But would he?

The blade was cold against his fingertips, trembling for his too thigh grip.

He closed his eyes.

Took a deep breath.

Crimson pooled between his legs, soaking his trousers and warming his frozen limbs.

The pain was awful, but the thighness in his chest was loosening.

He changed hand, the blade slipping against his skin, and other blood poured out, soaking the ground.

He was tired.

He closed his eyes, his back meeting the ground with a soft sound.

He was so tired.


End file.
